


Racing Toward A Red Light

by HalfwayToHell



Series: Wayward Sons [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accident, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Chloroform, F/M, First Time, Hair-pulling, Kidnapping, M/M, Praise, Rimming, Teen Jessica Moore, Teen Sam Winchester, Underage Drinking, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking, Wincest - Freeform, underage blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:58:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayToHell/pseuds/HalfwayToHell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sam confronts the memories in Carencro that he had preferred to never let see the light of day again, the youngest Winchester feels as though a small chunk of the proverbial rock has been lifted from his shoulders--only he is not able to bask in it long before he and Dean return to Lawrence once more to face their father again and this time, it is different. This time coming home means that John knows something both of the boys--Sam especially--have tried so hard to keep in the dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Racing Toward A Red Light

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist:
> 
> Dorothy- Shelter  
> Halestorm- Unapologetic  
> The Pretty Reckless- You  
> Shinedown- 45 (Acoustic Version)

                                                      

* * *

 

It had been a rough few months after Dean had come home.

 

Not because it had been hard to adjust to having his older brother back, but because the youngest Winchester had to bottle up what had happened to him in his brother’s absence and it was not just that either.

 

Sam had started to push Dean away.

 

Each time they had tried to go farther than blowjobs or hand jobs, the youngest became physically ill, remembering everything that had happened. Pastor Jim had ruined the one thing Sam had wanted to share with his big brother and now that had been taken away from him.

 

Although he was frustrated and upset and borderline murderous, there was a slight silver lining--a blessing, if Sam could call it that.

 

John had required Dean to be more involved in the Wayward Sons, more involved with club business that his big brother was too busy to spend any alone time with him and sometimes Sam had wondered if John was doing it on purpose, keeping his older brother so busy that he couldn’t be with him. Due to the ample time the youngest spent alone, Sam was able to avoid the conflict brewing inside of him only that much longer.

 

Until they came to Carencro.

 

It had been the first time since Dean had been back that they had been alone for longer than a few moments.

 

The hotel room had been unbearably hot--that much the youngest Winchester remembered clearly--even with the AC humming obnoxiously loud underneath the one window. Sweat collected on his slender teenage body and the muscles in his legs and arms trembled in anticipation chased with arousal.

 

He could feel Dean behind him, feel his older brother’s calloused hands gripping bruisingly tight onto his bony hips. Sam’s hands had been digging into the pillow that had been placed underneath his chest to prop his smaller body up just a little bit. The eldest Winchester always considerate when it came to his younger brother’s comfort.

 

“Dean,” Sam had whimpered, three lubed fingers knuckle deep inside of him. “Please.”

 

“Be patient, Sammy,” the eldest had replied, twisting his fingers inside of his younger brother, brushing against the sensitive ball of nerves that caused Sam to whine. “I don’t wanna hurt you.”

 

“It’s going to hurt either way,” Sam had muttered into the pillow, but he allowed his brother to finish prepping him as much as possible to avoid tearing.

 

A moment had passed and Dean removed his fingers, only to replace them with his hard cock rutting against the youngest’s hole, teasing. The sickness had hit Sam hard, his hands lashing out to grab onto the wooden headboard with his nails and he gasped; the twisting, ill motion in his stomach causing the sensation of bile to rise in his throat.

 

“Wait, Dean. Wait. Wait,” The youngest had pleaded when he felt the head of his brother’s cock.

 

“What is it, Sam?” His brother had asked, a concerned edge to his tone and Dean’s entire body had frozen behind him.

 

“I’m—I’m not ready,” Sam had licked his bottom lip nervously before he continued. “I’m sorry, De.”

 

There had been a long moment of silence and the sixteen-year old’s heart beat hard enough that he had felt it in his throat. He had thought that perhaps he had angered his brother—although later he would realize that it was a trivial thing to even believe for a moment that his brother would be—when he felt Dean’s weight shift forward, his brother’s lips brushing against his right shoulder blade.

 

“You don’t have to apologize, Sam. Not to me,” Dean had said into his brother’s sweaty skin. “If you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I would never wanna push you into doin’ somethin’ you aren’t comfortable with, but at least let me make you feel good, okay? I won’t penetrate you. I promise.”

 

Tears had stung in the youngest’s eyes. Tears of anger, tears of frustration, tears of sadness and tears of happiness all mixed together. Sam had wanted nothing more in the entire world than to give his virginity to Dean, he had wanted nothing more since he was a preteen to be with his older brother this way, but Pastor Jim had ruined it, ruined him, ruined what he had wanted most.

 

“I trust you, De,” Sam had whispered after a long while of bittersweet silence.

 

The symphonic sound of the bedsprings, Sam’s whimpers, and Dean’s murmured words of encouragement and praise had filled the hotel room, barely audible above the loud hum of the AC. The youngest had come untouched with only the sensation of his older brother’s cock rutting against him and not even a few moments later, the eldest had painted the curve of his little brother’s back with white.

 

It would be a full year and a half after that night that Sam would allow Dean to touch him like that again.

 

Junior year of high school, a girl with soft blonde hair and gentle blue eyes would move to Lawrence, Kansas and she would quickly capture Sam’s attention with her sense of otherworldly insights and the mere fact that she reminded the youngest so much of his older brother that he could not have in the way that he had wanted.

 

In many ways, Jessica Moore had replaced Dean, but not where it had mattered. Sam had still thought about his brother when he would hold her hand as they walked down the halls of his high school. He would still think about Dean when he and Jessica sat underneath the bleachers that he and his brother shared and smoked a few cigarettes and drank a few beers. He would still think about Dean when they shared their first kiss on Jessica’s front porch. He would still think about Dean when Jessica had dropped to her knees for the first time in front of the youngest Winchester while her father preached God’s word, unknown to the sins his own daughter was committing behind the house of the Lord. And he would still have Dean on his mind when Sam had given away part of his virginity to Jessica in the back seat of the broken down Chevelle in Uncle Bobby’s junk yard.

 

Dean would still be the first thing on his mind when Sam had first come to in the hospital bed with a broken collarbone, a fractured arm, a shattered cheekbone and bruised ribs after the accident. The one accident that had ripped Jessica away from him, ripped away his once chance to forget what Pastor Jim and his father had done, ripped away that one person that made Sam feel as if he was still with his brother without feeling the sick sensation each time Dean touched him in ways that brothers should not.

 

It would be six months after Jessica’s funeral, six months after Sam healed from the accident, six months after Dean repaired his little brother’s mangled motorcycle that Sam would give away the other half of his virginity to his older brother between his own bed sheets.

 

Even after all that time, Dean had welcomed Sam back with open arms. The youngest—to this day—still felt a twinge of guilt for pushing his older brother away, but Dean did not harbor any ill feelings toward him and that had made Sam wonder on multiple occasions if his brother had known that something had happened in his absence that caused his little brother to become distant. Sam knew he had hurt Dean in some way and he still continued to hurt him by keeping his secrets on his tongue, but he could not bring himself to tell his big brother—not yet. Not until he was ready.

 

The sensation of his brother’s calloused hands caressing the round flesh of his ass pulled Sam back to the present with a startled jump of nerves beneath his skin, fingers twisting in the pillowcase and a silent pulse of anticipation bubbled in his throat as the youngest felt his brother spreading his ass cheeks, which was quickly chased by a whimper when Dean’s tongue flicked out, brushing against his hole. Sam repositioned himself, opening his legs wider for his brother in order to allow the eldest Winchester better access.

 

Breathy whimpers and throaty whines escaped from the youngest Winchester with every nip and scrape of his brother’s teeth over sensitive flesh and the brushing of his tongue around Sam’s hole caused his moans to pitch an octave.

 

It took the youngest Winchester locking his knees and bowing his back to prevent him from grinding back on his brother’s tongue, knowing full well that in the bedroom--regardless of his brother’s sinfully skilled tongue and fingers--he was Dean’s marionette, his to control and bend however he wanted.

 

And the eldest Winchester knew how to pull Sam’s strings just right with each broken sob he elicited from his younger brother, with every twist and prod of his fingers buried deep within his brother, with each brush of the pad of his fingers against the sensitive bundle of nerves, Dean was slowly pulling Sam apart.

 

In the most gentle way that he knew how.

 

After a long while, Dean removed his fingers from his brother, causing a disapproving whine to bubble in his throat. The eldest draped his body over Sam’s, his mouth against the outer shell of the youngest’s ear.

 

“Turn over, sweetheart. I wanna see you,” Dean said, his tone low and gravelly in his throat, his hands caressing his sides convincingly, the rough edge of the callouses on his fingers causing shivers to travel through his younger brother.

 

“So beautiful,” His brother praised, tracing an invisible line across the youngest’s bottom lip before he caught his mouth with his own in a bruising kiss.

 

Sam had never seen what his brother saw. He could see the purple and blue and sometimes red flowers the flourished on his flesh, he could see the pink and puffed bottom lip each time his brother’s teeth bit too hard, he could see the sexed-out hair the next morning.

 

The youngest could only see the outside, he could never see nor begin to fathom what his brother saw when he was above him, praising him like he was a young God or the greatest creation to ever grace the Earth with his presence.

 

There were rare times that he could see a faint glimmer, a light in the span of his brother’s endless green abyss, but that was as far as the youngest had ever come close to seeing what his brother saw in him.

 

The eldest Winchester broke away from the kiss to spit into his palm before his hand disappeared between the space between their bodies. He braced his weight on his hands, each of them planted firmly on either side of the youngest’s sides and Sam slid both of his hands up his brother’s inked arms, fingers gripping tight at the eldest’s biceps.

 

With an easy but firm roll of Dean’s hips, he buried his cock into his younger brother, air hissing through Sam’s clenched teeth. The youngest could feel the burn from his inner muscles up to the lower curve of his back as the eldest thrust into him.

 

Sex between the two Winchester boys had never been gentle. It was full of nails biting into flesh, teeth snipping at throats, fingers pulling tight at hair. Most mornings the boys awoke with bumps and bruises and even cuts from nails or teeth from being a little too rough from the night before.

 

If  they were being honest, the only times either of them had been gentle would have been when Sam gave the other half of his virginity to his brother for the first time and when Dean was opening him up--and even then sometimes the eldest was a little rough with his tongue or his fingers. Not that Sam had or ever would mind, because they both got high from the dull and sharp pain during sex.

 

The youngest's nails bit into his brother’s biceps, a small bubble of blood blooming between the edge of his nails and the open petal of his brother’s flesh. With each roll and thrust of the eldest’s hips, Sam could feel the muscles in his brother’s arms flex beneath his fingers with each hard, powerful snap of his brother’s hips into him. Litanies of; “Dean” and “Please” and “Fuck” fell from the youngest’s lips each time the head of his brother’s cock prodded against his prostate, the hot coil of arousal in the youngest Winchester’s abdomen slowly unwinding. Some of the words that Dean effortlessly pulled from Sam sounded like a soft prayer while the other words that tumbled from his little brother’s mouth sounded like the razor’s edge of sin.

 

“ _Dean,_ ” The youngest keened, his back arching up off the sweat soaked sheets as heat pooled into the trembling muscles of his inner thighs.

 

The eldest’s fingers slipped into Sam’s damp hair, wrenching the younger man’s head back, cutting off a whimper from him as he exposed the long curve of his brother’s sweat sheened throat. Dean’s tongue blazed up his neck, tasting the salt of Sam’s sweat on his lips before his mouth pressed against his younger brother’s ear, his voice thick and rough.

 

“I got you, Sammy,” Dean rasped, his fingers twisting harder in his little brother’s hair. “Come for me, sweetheart.”

 

All the youngest needed was his brother’s request to send him over the edge.

 

Hot, thick come painted Sam’s stomach and his entire body seized, a silent cry trapped in his throat. Dean helped his younger brother ride out his orgasm before the tightness of Sam’s inner walls caused him to tumble into his own orgasm.

 

The only sounds left in the muggy hotel room was the terrible humming of the Air Conditioner beneath the window and the Winchester brother’s breathless pants. The boys stayed that way for a little while before Sam unclenched his nails from his brother’s arms and Dean crawled off of the bed, making his way toward the bathroom.

 

He returned a few moments later with a cold washcloth that he used to clean Sam’s come from his stomach. When he was finished, the eldest carelessly tossed the rag onto the floor before he crawled back into the bed with his brother. Sam shifted onto his side, his brother’s arm winding around his waist, pulling him up until his back rested against Dean’s sweat-soaked chest.

 

**† † † † †**

 

The ride back to Lawrence seemed to be significantly shorter than the ride to Carencro.

 

The Four Horsemen escorted the boys to the Louisiana-Texas state lines early that next morning. The Winchesters rode until Sam could feel his fingers growing numb and his inner thighs and lower back started to ache, but even then they continued to ride. They stopped at a small speck of a town when they entered Oklahoma to grab a bite to eat but did not stay long before their tires hit asphalt once more.

 

There was a silent, urgent agreement between the two to get back to Lawrence as soon as possible. Neither of them understood why, but it was as if there was this invisible string tugging them back home. It was an odd feeling and it caused Sam’s intestines to knot and twist into impossible shapes in his stomach.

 

The uncomfortable twisting in his gut unwound the moment they crossed the Kansas state lines, greeted by a few members of the Wayward Sons and Rufus. The Winchesters fell back into their rightful places at the beginning of the line as Rufus and the other bikers followed in behind them as they rode the highway up to Lawrence.

 

John had been sitting at the throne of the table-- _like a Goddamn king,_ Sam thought bitterly for a moment--when the boys walked into the Bunker’s library, their knapsacks tossed over their shoulders. After a short while of standing near the table, the boys dumped their bags full of cash bundles onto the table and their father’s eyes finally lifted from the paperwork in front of him to meet their gazes briefly.

 

“Glad to see that you boys are both back in one piece,” John said, his voice lacking any emotion.

 

He opened his mouth again, but whatever he planned to say died when his eyes locked onto the nail marks in Dean’s arms and then onto the blooming bruises on Sam’s neck. John’s jaw flexed for a brief moment, his eyes like two hot, burning coals as he flicked his gaze up to meet the youngest’s, who adverted his own gaze nearly as quickly as his father’s eyes had turned on him, pretending to inspect the toe of his boots.

 

“Looks like you boys had some fun,” Their father continued after a little while, a deadly sharp edge to his voice. “Didn’t cause a scene, did you?”

 

Dean gave John his glass-smooth grin, unaffected by the tone in his father’s voice. “We were like two Boy Scouts.”

 

John was silent for a moment, mulling something over in his mind. “I see,” said their father at last. His attention swiveled onto his youngest son. “Is that what happened, Samuel? Were you two _just_ like Boy Scouts?”

 

Sam had been poised to answer his question initially, until he caught the way his father was looking at him, until he caught the way the man’s fingers were white knuckled around the pen, until he caught the way that John’s entire body was turned toward him.

 

The realization spilled over the youngest like chilled water, piercing him to the marrow of his bones:

 

_John knew._

 

The coldness Sam felt rendered him speechless, causing him to flounder for words underneath his father’s blazing gaze, but all he could do was return John’s stare with widened kaleidoscope eyes and a mouth that was slightly parted, waiting for words to fall from them.

 

Sensing his little brother’s discomfort, Dean stepped into John’s line of vision, shielding Sam from their father’s heated stare.

 

“That’s what I said,” The eldest replied, his voice low and blunt with an edging of a dare--daring his father to speak against him, daring their father to even glance in Sam’s direction again.

 

John grinned, the smile on his lips as cold and as sharp as ice. “Good. Wouldn’t want to stir up trouble.” Their father turned his attention back onto the paperwork in front of him. “Bobby said he needed to speak to the both of you when you got back. So you two best not keep him waiting any longer.”

 

It was John’s form of dismissal and the boys gladly took the hint, Sam being especially grateful. Although his grateful demeanor only lasted until the Winchester boys reached their bikes and his older brother stopped suddenly, turning to slowly glance at his brother.

 

“Answer me this,” Dean said, his words cautious and calculated. “Why has Dad been houndin’ you so much? I mean--I feel like it’s back the way it was before he up and left.”

 

“Not sure,” lied Sam as he climbed onto Jess, strapping his helmet on. Trying to convince his brother, the youngest smiled at him. “We better do what Dad says and not keep Uncle Bobby waiting.”

 

Before Sam turned his motorcycle on, he heard Dean mumble beneath his breath, “Since when do you listen to Dad.”

 

**† † † † †**

 

Harvelle’s Roadhouse smelled the same way the last time the Winchester boys had been there--the scent of roasted peanuts, crisp scent of leather and the sharp tang of nicotine from cigarettes greeted them in a strong rush of air the moment they stepped inside of the bar. Dean’s arm was nestled snuggly around Sam’s waist as they made their way across the floor.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the youngest Winchester caught sight of the pool table where there was a large dark stain in the green felt and he couldn’t help the smirk that curled at the corner of his mouth. He had to admit: Brady was fun, especially since he was able to stir the jealousy in his brother up so quickly, but he was still rather disappointed that Brady’s throat never split open like a flower’s petal underneath his brother’s cold blade and deadly hand.

 

Had the Winchesters been paying attention, they would have seen the woman before they heard her.

  
“Oh, no. No no no,” Ellen Harvelle stepped in front of the boys, temporarily stunning them. It was not her presence that caused them to stop, but the shining end of the shotgun that was pointed at their chests. “I refuse to have you boys back in my bar,” She paused a second to point her chin in the direction of the pool table. “Not after what you did. I have respect for Bobby, but no amount of respect will keep you two devils from raisin’ hell in my bar.”

 

The youngest could feel the tension in his brother’s muscles as he shifted forward, pushing Sam back and at the same time, he could see Dean’s fingers slowly reaching for Michael strapped against his side. Sam should have been concerned for him and his brother, but he knew better. They had an uncanny ability to get themselves out of dangerous situations.

 

“Listen real close, darlin’,” The eldest began, his voice clear and flat. “I can guarantee you that you’d be dead before you could pull the trigger. Unless you’d like your daughter to know what it feels like to bury her mother, I’d really appreciate it if you’d put the gun down.”

 

There was a tense moment of silence between them, the air so thick that it could have suffocated them all. There was a flicker of an emotion that crossed Ellen’s facial features that initially made the youngest believe that she would come to her senses and put the gun down as his brother had requested, but that emotion was fleeting as the woman cocked the shotgun and said, “Try me.”

 

If it would have been a second longer, the eldest would have reached for his knife and thrown it at the woman. Sam had seen Dean’s impeccable ability to throw knives with deadly accuracy. He had seen his older brother throwing Michael at the Bunker walls, old car tires, and tin cans and each time his brother had hit his mark perfectly. Had their Uncle Bobby waited a fraction of a hair longer, Ellen would have had the six inch blade plunged into her throat or her chest cavity or her skull.

 

“Put the gun down, Ellen. That boy would kill you if you gave him the chance,” The older man warned as one of his hands gripped tightly onto the barrel, pointing it down at the wooden floor. There was a flicker of betrayal in the woman’s eyes, as if she could not believe that Bobby would defend the Winchester boys after what they had done, but then there was another glimmer of understanding--although it was a bitter one. “This will only take a moment. I’ll keep an eye on’em.”

 

Ellen’s eyes slid between Bobby and the boys, her eyes narrowed in disdain, but the woman stepped back, keeping her shotgun pointed at the floor. “That’s what you promised me last time,” The woman said before she walked back toward the bar, where her daughter and Ash had been frozen behind the counter.

 

There was a silence in the air and Sam could feel everyone’s eyes turned in their direction, the weight of their stares piercing the back of his neck. Dean must have felt the same way as his younger brother because the grip on Sam’s hip tightened and the eldest cast a warning glare over his shoulder.

 

“Go back t’ what y’all were doin’,” Uncle Bobby said, trying to keep the peace as usual. The older man turned his pale eyes onto the brothers, pursing his lips in slight disappointment. “I need t’ talk with you boys.”

 

Sam had expected the meeting Bobby wished to have with them would entail something of importance, given the urgency in which he had ushered them into the back room, but the meeting was the typical mundane update on the club’s financial quotas, where the club stood with other neighboring clubs and so on.

 

The youngest had checked out a long time ago while Uncle Bobby droned on, his eyes staring ahead with an incoherent haze in them. It was not until the older man turned his attention onto Sam that he stepped back into reality, flicking his kaleidoscope gaze onto his Uncle.

 

“I need t’ speak t’ your brother in private, son.”

 

The way in which Bobby had said it, the way in which he sat across from him, the way his hands were folded in front of him on the table, briefly reminded Sam of the school counselors he used to have to sit down and talk with an hour a day during school--although it had more or less been Sam sitting silently in a chair too large for his small body and listened silently and blinked robotically while the counselor tried to get the youngest Winchester to speak or interact in some sort of way that lead them to believe he was comprehending what they were trying to convey to him.

 

The counselors he had been forced to speak with because his teachers were “concerned” about his well being when really, they did not want to deal with him for eight consecutive hours a day, who did not want to be under constant barrage of the youngest Winchester’s cold and unwavering stare, who did not want to feel that they were being picked apart by a child who could very well at a moment’s notice, could stab a pencil through a peer’s throat if aggravated, who knew all too well about John’s reputation and who--in some sense--feared the Wayward Sons.

 

So instead of participating in group activities and lesson plans, Sam was left alone in the far back corner of each classroom, his nose stuck in a book or his pen scratching across his diary and even though Sam never participated in class discussions, he was still able to pass each class, each subject, each test without difficulty.

  
The youngest Winchester’s uncanny intelligence intimidated every teacher, every adult figure he had growing up. Sam quickly became a force to be reckoned with, even as a small child in kindergarten and his older brother became the one child no teacher wanted to catch stares with.

 

Sam grinned, flashing a mouth full of white. “Sure, Uncle Bobby.” The youngest stood from his chair and leaned down to press a quick kiss into his brother’s temple, murmuring against his hairline, “I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

 

Sam did not have an inkling of an idea as to what their uncle needed to speak to his brother about in private, but he was more than confident that Dean would fill him in on the details later. The youngest had not walked farther than a few steps away from the back room of the Roadhouse, when a woman caught his attention at the island. Even from the distance between them, Sam could conclude that she looked oddly familiar and she sat at the bar, one slender leg cross over the other, a drink in her hand and her body clad in all figure-fitting black. 

 

Suddenly--as if the woman could sense him staring--she turned to look in his direction. Startling recognizable dark eyes and blood red lips pulled into a coy smirk faced him. She lifted the drink in her hand--almost like a silent toast or a silent acknowledgement that she was greeting him like an old friend--and gave him a wink before she turned her attention back onto Ash, who took the money the woman slid across the island toward him. Without even a moment’s hesitation, the realization sank into Sam’s bones.

 

The woman was Meg.

 

Against his better judgement, Sam followed her as she turned away from the bar to head outside. More than anything, the youngest Winchester felt a sense of unease and confusion as to why a woman he had met only once down in Louisiana could possibly be here now. 

 

It did not make any sense to the youngest Winchester, although there was a part of him--a small, infinitesimal part--that was in complete denial and he was sure it couldn’t be Meg, that would be an astronomical coincidence, but Sam had to know if it was her. 

 

The moment he stepped outside, the moment the warm Kansas summer air hit his skin, was the only other time the youngest Winchester had ever been caught off guard. Hands were on him in an instant and something wet and sweet smelling was pressed firmly against his mouth and nose. Sam could not see who had a hold on him, but he could tell it was a man--more than one, in fact--by the strong arm that was locked around his throat, hauling him back.

 

The youngest’s primal instincts kicked in almost milliseconds after the men grabbed him and he started to fight and thrash and writhe in their grasps, trying to get free. Because Sam could not call out to his brother for help, it was up to the youngest to fend off the men. 

 

He tried to hold his breath to keep from inhaling the sweet smelling liquid as he kicked and fought and tried to twist his body this way and that and he tried to get purchase on the wall or the wooden posts--or  _ something _ to give him leverage against the men. 

 

It seemed all his fighting was starting to pay off when one of the men lost hold on him and the one with his arm around his throat cursed loudly, but before Sam could get the other man off of him, fingers twisted in his hair and he was thrown to the side, his temple slamming hard into one of the wooden walls of Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

  
The youngest’s body instantaneously went slack in the man’s arms, pulled under by the darkness and the sickeningly sweet scent of chloroform in his lungs.

* * *

 

                                                        

 

 


End file.
